Page 13 of The Endless Want

Warehouse 12 sits on the edge of the river, half-hidden by a line of rusted shipping containers. The streetlights don’t reach this far. Only the sound of the tide and the low hum of generators keep the place alive.

Conor’s truck is parked crooked by the loading bay. Its engine’s still ticking when I pull up beside it.

He meets me at the door, face tight. “You’re not gonna like this.”

“I already don’t.”

He pushes the door open. The interior’s dark except for a single bulb swinging above a worktable. Beneath it, a laptop glows. On the screen—security footage, timestamped from two nights ago.

“Play it,” I say. Conor hits the space bar.

The image jumps to life: a figure in a hooded coat moving through the dock office, quick, deliberate. They slide a keycard through the reader, type something into the terminal, pull a flash drive, and disappear into the rain.

Conor freezes the frame and zooms. The hood falls back just enough to show red hair catching the light.

My chest goes cold. “No.”

“It looks like her, Dec.”

“It’s not.”

“You sure? Because I checked the access log—same code you showed Liam. Same minute the manifest was edited.”

I step closer, studying the image until my eyes ache. The angle’s bad, resolution worse, but the outline—the stance—yeah, it could be her. Or anyone wearing her coat. I force the thought down.

“Someone planted it,” I say. “It’s bait.”

“Then they know how to bait you.”

I glare. “You think I can’t be objective?”

“I think you’re already compromised. Liam’s right⁠—”

“Don’t quote him to me.”

Conor lifts his hands. “Alright. But if it is her, we’re one leak away from a funeral.”

I don’t answer. The rain starts again, harder now, rattling the corrugated roof. I grab the laptop, close it, and slide it into a bag.

“I’m taking this.”

“Where?”

“To the techs. I’ll get the original footage before someone decides to edit it again.”

Conor hesitates. “You want backup?”

“No. The fewer eyes, the better.”

He nods slowly. “Watch your back, yeah?”

“Always.”

Driving through the city, I replay the footage in my head on a loop. Every frame argues against her, every instinct argues for her.

I pull over on Merchant Street, kill the lights, and sit there listening to the rain drum the roof. The car smells of gun oil and damp leather. My reflection in the windshield looks like a stranger.

If it is her, what then? Bring her in? Hand her over to Liam? The idea twists something inside me that I don’t have a name for.